She opened the door and said, Look what your beast did to me. I’ll never see you again. You are a stupid man, Gunther. And now I have a black eye, she shouted, and I have a book signing coming up! And she slammed the bathroom door.
Let’s go, the man said to me. He put on his trousers, quickly gathered his clothes, grabbed his shoes and slimy socks, and we rushed out of the room and into the hallway, where he started to laugh and put his shoes on. That was magnificent, he said, when we were once more in the car. Good job, indeed, Fly. Magnificent! It was just like a scene from a Godard movie: absurd and philosophical. You, my man, you do not blink. You are physical and visceral. You act without hesitating or thinking about your act. It is funny, we were discussing this the other night. I was in that novelist’s presence, in fact, along with some other friends. We were discussing writers, writing, and the act of writing. I was reminded of a scene from the Godard film Vivre sa vie. Have you seen it?
I do not have a television.
Pompous rubbish, you should have a TV. The visual and the popular are essential. Anyway, in this film, there is a beautiful, young, intelligent woman who is seduced by a pimp and turned into a prostitute. . but the particular scene I am referring to is when she meets a philosopher in a Parisian café. The old philosopher tells her the story of a gangster who put a bomb in a car, then turned to flee. But then he began to think about the act of walking, imagining the act and trying to understand the motion or the force that makes one’s legs move forward. And the mere act of thinking about the mechanics of walking crippled him and he became paralyzed.
And the bomb? I asked.
We don’t care at this point whether he is dead or not. He is a gangster, why should we care? Not to be judgmental. But all this is to say, Fly, that I think you could still be a writer. I might be wrong but I believe that, contrary to the fighting instincts you displayed here today, while you were writing you might have thought too much about the act of writing. And that is precisely what has happened to our novelist. And lately she has been on a crusade to glorify French culture. Ha! I assume it is to compensate for her provincial, parochial background. We recently had a heated argument about the complicity of culture and cultural figures in the project of imperialism. She went on a tangent about the greatness of Henry Miller, but if you ask me Miller is overrated. Ninety percent of his writing is incomprehensible, and incantation of the word cunt does not make you a sexual liberator. She wouldn’t hear it, she banged her fist on the table and almost spilled the wine. You see, she thinks that she and Miller have contributed to the American sexual revolution. Rubbish. I believe the only revolution that matters in that country was, and still is, the black revolution: anything else is a residue of European enlightenment. Anyway, let’s not get too philosophical here. Just to say that I think her reluctance to untie me today might have had something to do with our argument. Of course, it could well have been unconscious, the unconscious is full of murderous impulses, after all. She is back to her excessive drinking and she’s picked up born-again Christianity on the way, as well as bondage, not that there are any contradictions there, watch me roll my eyes. . I am glad you came on time, anyway. Well, now that you are driving, I trust you won’t think about the act of driving or we will never get home, will we, my saviour? You look pensive, my dear Fly.
Well, I am thinking of the leather lady, I said. You know, the writer we left in the bathroom, spitting blood.
She will be fine. Do not worry. I’ll call her tonight and we will laugh about it. Some excitement might be good for her creativity. For the past ten or fifteen years or so she’s been struggling to produce something substantial. Now, do drive me back home. There is only so much excitement a man can take in one day.
May I ask you something? I said.
Do.
The lady called you by a name. Is that your real name: Gunther?
Here we are. I leave you. Ta ta!
DUEL
I TOO DECIDED to call it a night. I wanted to go home, put on the light, have a drink, and watch the battles of life unfold. On the way there, I encountered many young men and women in costume: cross-dressers, Einsteins, masked animals and half-naked beasts, and other undefined creatures. Many waved to me, some even banged on my car. I turned off my lantern and waved from inside the glass, informing them, in mime, that I was off to partake in the glorious intoxication of man’s history. My mind was made up; I was heading back to my rug to invoke the sun, the blood of martyrs and insects, the fermenting of liquids, and the flying carpets of old palaces. I would lie on the floor and think of President Lincoln and his almost fatal duel with a foe. It was stopped just in time, and who knows what would have happened if. .
As I drove back, I remembered a true story I had heard at Café Bolero. The story involved Number 72, otherwise known as Mani (or, in my lexicon, the Sex Spider), and Number 89, whom I recently dubbed the Tight-ass Spider. Gathering at the taxi stand one day were many numbers, a whole collection of bored spiders. Business was slow; the taxi commission had just hiked the fares. People, in protest or frugality, preferred other means of transportation that particular week, though they would eventually accept, forget, and go back to taking taxis. Anyway, a well-dressed woman passed by Numbers 72 and 89, and she did a back-and-forth, at times stopping, at times smiling, looking indecisive and even a bit confused. Number 89 said that she was a hesitant customer, perhaps one of those boycotting the taxis. Number 72, the Sex Spider, replied that she wanted it.
Number 89 mocked the Sex Spider, who then made a bet in front of everyone who was present that day: If I manage to pick her up and take her to a room today, he said to Number 89, I’ll get to fuck you. If I don’t, you are free to fuck me.
I am not into fucking men, the Tight-ass Spider replied.
Well then, the Sex Spider proclaimed, if I win, I fuck you, and if you win, I will pay you one thousand dollars. The bet was on, and the Sex Spider went on the trail of the woman. He smiled, dropped his chin, and lifted his eyes. He spoke, and smiled some more, and then pointed to his car and ushered the lady to the front seat. He waved to the bystanders, whose eyes were all wide with disbelief. The Tight-ass Spider said, That does not mean he has won. The bet is for him to actually get her into bed.
Two hours later, the Sex Spider managed to convince the dispatcher to state the following on air: Witnesses needed for an historical event involving the initiation of Number 89 into a new world of adventure and happiness. All those involved please be at Motel 9, on Vignard Street, in fifteen minutes.
Twenty cars showed up in the lot of the motel as the Sex Spider walked out, hand in hand with the woman. It was said that Number 89 had been in denial, and a burst of sweat broke out all over him. All the taxis honked and proclaimed Mani, Number 72, the winner and the groom.
Two weeks later it was discovered that the woman in question was a prostitute.
There is no one to match the Sex Spider in his appetite for love and adventure. The Sex Spider is a talker and a lover of bouncing thighs, long and short thighs, shiny thighs, shaved thighs, and hairy thighs. The Sex Spider is an equal-opportunity lover. He loves all the world and its inhabitants, as he often proclaims, people in all their colours, shapes, and forms.
Once, in Café Bolero, we were sitting side by side, and we got into a conversation about the state of affairs in the world.
I said to him, This world is an inferior place.
Not at all, he said. God created each one of us with a light inside. I’ve had sex with all kinds of people; every single person has a kind of beam inside that shines once they are touched properly.